


With My Heart as With a Hand

by synchronized_strangers



Series: Fearful Appetites [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Choking, Cross-Generation Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Frottage, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Hand Jobs, Homicide, Implied Underage Sex, Incest Adjacent, Jealousy, M/M, Masochism, Overstimulation, Past Sexual Abuse, Physical Domination, Physical Initimdation, Plotting, Power Dynamics, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Psychopaths In Love, References to Childhood Sexual Abuse, Revenge, Sadism, Threesome - M/M/M, Torture, Unnegotiated Kinks, Unsafe Sex, Violent Sex, Wolf!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:50:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synchronized_strangers/pseuds/synchronized_strangers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles might not be a born wolf but Derek thinks maybe he was meant to be. There’s something savage there, lurking. Something hungry.</p>
<p>Ravenously, his mind supplies. Stiles is looking at him ravenously, and if the electric way his nerves light up under the scrutiny is any indication, Derek likes it.</p>
<p>He likes it a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “Extinguish my eyes, I'll go on seeing you.  
> Seal my ears, I'll go on hearing you.  
> And without feet I can make my way to you,  
> without a mouth I can swear your name.
> 
> Break off my arms, I'll take hold of you  
> with my heart as with a hand.  
> Stop my heart, and my brain will start to beat.  
> And if you consume my brain with fire,  
> I'll feel you burn in every drop of my blood.”  
> ― Rainer Maria Rilke

**I. extinguish my eyes, I’ll go on seeing you**

He knows as soon as he steps into the apartment -- feels the scent spread across his skin like oil the second he opens the door. Heavy, thick, cloying. _Fear_.

Laura is sitting at the kitchen table, whiter than her leotard, wound tighter than her bun. On the screen is a news article, coverage of a murder in Beacon Hills. The name itself is enough to send a pang through him, stirring up grief that isn’t nearly old enough but it’s the picture that says it all.

A burning spiral and a series of previously unconnected homicides.

 _A burning spiral_.

He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until he feels his keys slip through his fingers but even when he does, Derek can’t make it stop.

“Is it--?”

Laura shakes her head but not like she’s saying no. It’s a slow-quick snap, instinctive. Afraid. “I don’t know. I don’t know. Shit, Derek, what if it’s--”

She can’t say it either. Because it might be. It really might and that --

It hits him like a gust of wind, sudden and strong. Leaves him shaking in earnest as the thought cuts through him with the worst kind of hope.

 _Please. Please_.

He hadn’t even known he had hope left.

+

They can’t pick a radio station.

The recycled air in the car reeks of burning plastic.

Derek is pretty sure he hates the Camaro but can’t decide if that’s because it’s taking them back to Beacon Hills or because it isn’t taking them fast enough.

He hasn’t had an appetite since he saw the article. He thinks it’s the same for Laura because after the first day they don’t bother stopping to eat. The fast food just sits in his stomach.

“We could stop,” she says somewhere in Nebraska but it’s a lie and they both know it. Whatever happens there is no stopping. No going back. There can't be. Not until they know for sure.

She drives until she can’t. He drives until he can’t. When they hit California, they pull over so Derek can puke at the side of the road.

Two days between his new life and his old. _Two days_. It had felt safer than that, but he knows now they’ve never been safe. Never. Not for one second in three years.

Laura's driving when they hit the city limits and then she has to puke, too.

Even through the reek from the car vents he can smell what’s left of the house.

+

Laura cries, fists her hands in Peter’s jacket like she can’t bear to let go. Like he might vanish if she doesn’t have her hands on him but Derek froze the minute he saw them through the trees and now he can’t bring himself to move.

It’s Peter and it’s not. It’s --

His skin is --

And he _chose_ that. He let it stay that way for god knows what reason. It’s obscene. A lurid reminder of everything Derek’s worked for years now to bury, but it’s the eyes that really terrify him. The red gleam and the half-smothered betrayal and the longing that halted Derek’s progress, left him caught somewhere between relief so powerful it hurts and guilt so fierce he's afraid it might actually kill him.

And worse, Peter’s not alone. There’s this kid with him standing off to the side, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets and everything about his posture is casual except his eyes. Whiskey brown and deep enough to drown in if Derek’s not careful. At least that’s what it feels like when he meets them.

Stiles, Derek remembers, the Sheriff’s son.

Stiles might not be a born wolf but Derek thinks maybe he was meant to be. There’s something savage there, lurking. Something hungry. Stiles who stood with him while his world burned down. He was a child then and he’s a child now but it doesn’t stop the thrill that slices through Derek at the sight of him.

Ravenously, his mind supplies. Stiles is looking at him ravenously, and if the electric way his nerves light up under the scrutiny is any indication, Derek likes it. A lot.

He can’t handle that either, though, so he looks away.

+

Stiles is fifteen and Derek is obviously more of a sick fuck then he gave himself credit for but he’s disgustingly relieved to have something to focus on that isn’t the poreless gleam of Peter’s melted face or the hollow ache where Peter used to be pack.

It makes sense that his uncle became an Alpha. Piecemeal packs split all the time and it's not unusual for multiple alphas to crop up when they do but Derek can’t reconcile the space in his chest with the fact of his uncle. He just... he can’t.

Which is why he’s pathetically grateful that where Peter goes Stiles seems to follow, motion and sound and sprawling limbs, draping himself over whatever’s nearest; shifting when he miscalculates his length. Stiles is puppy long, hands and feet too big for his spindly arms and legs. Legs that Derek is pretty certain go on for actual days. He should know, he's spent several just staring.

Stiles grins when he catches Derek’s eye, lascivious and mocking in a way no fifteen year old should be. It reminds Derek of the legends his mother used to tell them at bedtime. Epic stories about the people of the mounds. Lithe and pale and deadly. Sharp tongues and sharper knives.

Watching Stiles, Derek could believe they’d been real once, glittering, dangerous beings that made you want to slice off your own skin just for the chance to be near them.

When he isn’t thinking about Stiles he’s thinking about Peter and since he’s avoiding thinking about Peter --

Derek hates himself for wanting the distraction but can’t bring himself to stop.

Laura waits for a quiet moment, voice pitched low while Stiles and Peter bicker in the kitchen. There’s a symmetry there that can’t be ignored, a casual intimacy that goes beyond pack. It leaves a taste like acid in the back of Derek’s throat, makes him want to pull Stiles away and get in Peter’s face, but really, how is that any better?

How is _he_ any better when most of the reason he wants to pull Stiles away is so he can do the same thing?

The taste in his throat turns to ash.

“It’s not in my head, right?” she asks, the genuine concern there making Derek starkly aware of just how fucked up he really is if he’s jealous of someone else abusing a kid.

Stiles swipes at Peter’s face, an easy grin on his face that doesn’t quite manage to look innocent as Peter ducks, unrepentant and casually smug.

“No,” Derek says. “It’s not.”

When Peter turns away, though, the grin disappears, sliding off Stiles’s face like it never existed and in its place is... Derek doesn’t have a name for what he sees but it makes him wonder if his instincts aren’t wrong. If Peter isn’t the one he should be pulling away and that --

Why would he need to --

But that _look_.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say something, to ask Laura if she’s seeing it, too, that silver sharp edge in Stiles’s eyes, but like he can sense the bend of Derek’s thoughts Stiles glances his way and the look is gone as quickly as it came.

The grin Stiles throws Derek isn’t innocent, either, and just like that the last thing he wants is for Laura to notice.

When Derek works up the courage to glance at her, he’s relieved and ashamed all once that’s she’s watching Peter and didn’t see.

+

There are things he wasn’t expecting, things he didn’t know and still doesn’t understand.

Stiles is careless words and cutting gestures. Initially Derek thought it was because he couldn’t be still but he’s beginning to think it’s a ruse to hide an inner stillness. There's a watchful quiet that’s constantly aware in Stiles. There are glimpses of it if you're paying attention, and Derek is. Stiles is, too, though. To everything and everyone, all the time, but above and beyond that he is perpetually, relentlessly aware of Derek.

It should be frightening to realize he’s under that kind of scrutiny but all Derek can feel is relief. One of the reasons he’s avoided relationships so fervently is that he’d have to explain. Why he doesn’t want to talk. Why he doesn’t like nails against his neck and can’t stand the smell of jasmine. Why he hates being called anything other than his name.

He really, really hates terms of endearment.

And Stiles knows that -- all of those things, probably, but if he doesn’t already he will. Because Stiles is watching. Stiles has curved that focus around  _him_.

Part of him hates Stiles for that because the last thing Derek needs is another excuse. Not half as much as he hates himself for blaming Stiles at all, though.

+

It’s Stiles who finds him, unsurprisingly. Stiles will always find him, probably, if he wants to. Sometimes it seems like Stiles can learn as much from an absence as a presence, shape the gaps in his facts and data into stunningly accurate pictures.

Stiles saw Derek’s absence so he found him. The method really doesn’t make a difference.

It seems to take forever and no time at all for Stiles to crouch, miles of leg folding up until he’s got a hand on the back of Derek’s neck and an eyeful of Laura’s body. What’s left of Laura’s body.

What’s left of Derek.

It’s easier than the fire.

It’s a thousand times worse than the fire.

 _Laura is dead_.

Even thinking it opens a black, ragged hole in his chest.

The scent of gunpowder and wolfsbane burns in his lungs. “Hunters,” Derek says, and he’s surprised his voice is steady -- surprised he still has a voice at all.

Stiles’s eyes flash gold even as his hand tightens on Derek’s neck. “Argents,” he corrects, jerking his head toward the knife. “That belongs to Chris.”

And Derek feels his world lurch, feels his heart shift in his chest because that might be Chris Argent’s knife but it reeks of --

_Nails scratching against his scalp, a little too hard but he doesn’t complain because even when she’s hurting him she’s the best thing he can imagine having. The only thing he wants._

_Derek presses his nose to the inside of her wrist, watches her eyes go dark and all he can smell is --_

“Kate,” he says, and there’s the break in his voice he was expecting. His weakness always wins out in the end. “That’s her perfume.”

Turns out he killed his sister, too.

The grip on his neck tightens. Not a hint of nail. Stiles bites them off before they can grow so it’s skin on skin even as he shifts to block Laura from view.

“Derek.” And when he still won’t look up, Stiles just pulls him in until he can hide his face against Stiles’s neck, until his entire world narrows to that stretch of skin. Stiles’s heart beat. Stiles’s breath. Stiles’s scent, like moss and sweat and wind. Like he shifted on his way over, slipped into his fur to find Derek faster.

He doesn’t mean to say it, has no plans to speak at all but his traitor voice that should’ve deserted him says, “I’m an omega,” and god, he hadn’t even thought of that but he is.

Stiles huffs a laugh, hot and wet against Derek’s shoulder. It raises gooseflesh across Derek's skin, leaves him keenly aware of the cold. “You’re really not,” he says, fingers rubbing gently between the dips of Derek’s spine.

“Peter--”

“Derek. That is never going to happen to you, all right? You are never, ever going to be alone.” Something must betray the hopelessness he feels because Stiles squeezes, his grip almost painful but it’s what Derek needs, that connection. Stiles barely knows him, hasn’t seen him in years, and how screwed up is it that a fifteen year old kid is the one protecting him?

When it comes right down to it, though, there’s nothing childish about Stiles. From his winnowed body to his old eyes, Stiles is grounded. Stiles is sure. He’s everything Derek isn’t and he smells like home.

“You and me? We’re pack,” he says, fingers sliding along the column of Derek’s spine. “That’s not going to change. Not for anyone or anything, ever.” Then he sets his teeth against the skin of Derek’s neck and it’s like a soft reset on Derek’s brain. Every muscle in his body goes limp, loose and relaxed and it’s completely wrong.

It shouldn’t happen, shouldn’t even be possible. Stiles isn’t an alpha or family but Derek can feel himself unwinding, opening under Stiles in a way that screams submission, every instinct sighing, _Yes_.

He wants to know why Stiles cares in the first place, why it matters at all to some kid his uncle took advantage of that Derek might be an omega, but he’s just so wretchedly grateful that someone still wants him -- that he isn’t alone -- he can’t bring himself to ask.

+

Peter doesn’t say anything when they tell him. What is there to say? Laura is _dead_.

The last of their family is dead.

They don’t pretend they count for each other. It wasn’t Derek Peter hugged when they came back.

It’s Derek Stiles sits beside, though; who Stiles won’t stop touching. A hand on Derek’s back. His shoulder against Derek’s shoulder. Warmth and heat seeping into Derek’s skin until his body remembers them.

He's got mixed feelings on that. Mostly he wishes Stiles had left him for dead, though. He might as well be since everything he was goes into the ground with Laura. They bury her under a wolfsbane spiral near the old house. She deserves to keep her shape no matter how painful the process.

+

Sometimes Stiles knows what Derek needs before Derek does, like how Stiles starts sleeping in Derek’s room without discussion. There’s no hesitation at the door way, not even the hint of it despite the fact that Stiles is entering what should by all rights be another wolf’s territory.

It’s almost like they really are pack, like Derek’s space is as familiar to Stiles as his own. He certainly treats it that way, shucking his clothing and climbing into bed between Derek and the door, arm thrown over Derek’s waist to keep him close with absent-minded possessiveness.

Derek hadn’t even known he’d been afraid until he sleeps like that, curled between Stiles and the wall. Hadn’t known what he was missing until it steals through him, warm and steady and good. So horribly good.

He feels safe even though he knows he's not.

It’s too much and not enough and it’s wrong. He knows it’s wrong. Stiles is young -- too young for Derek and way too young for Peter but when their eyes meet in the dark, Derek can’t help feeling like he’s the child. Like _Stiles_ is trying to be careful with _him_ , as if he’s the one who might break.

It feels a lot like the truth.

He still can’t make himself stop. He just... he wants. He wants so many things and this is one of them. Stiles in his bed, holding him, and it’s something he can have. Something he’s been given; maybe something he can keep.

He’s lost so much. He can’t--

Those eyes are just so bright.

+

He doesn’t mean to say it. He’d intended not to, but seeing Stiles stretched out across the bed -- Derek still hasn’t decided if it’s his or theirs even though Stiles has slept in it every night since they found Laura -- he’d let himself sink a little too far into that safe feeling and the words just popped out without his permission.

That’s getting to be a bad habit where Stiles is concerned. A fact that is, in itself, concerning.

“Why are we doing this?” he asks and Stiles frowns, tipping his head back at an improbable angle to look Derek in the eye.

“Why are we what? Planning to kill the woman responsible for destroying our families? Pretty sure that question answers itself.”

“Don’t be stupid. You know what I mean.”

“You should patent that bitch-face. I bet you could sell it to Kripke and make a fortune.” Stiles wriggles onto his side to put Derek in view, somehow managing to look fidgety and graceful both. “I don’t really know what you want me to say here. She should pay so she’s going to.”

Derek has to swallow twice before he can speak, torn between feeling like a traitor for questioning their motives and his increasing doubts about their goal. “And that’s right? That’s not justice, Stiles.”

“Because it was so just when Laura had her throat slit? Or when Peter killed your mom so she wouldn’t burn to death?”

He can feel himself going white, flinches harder than if Stiles had actually hit him. He still can’t tell if Stiles means to hurt him or just can’t pull his punches but really it’s irrelevant because if Kate deserves to suffer Derek does, too, and there’s just no softening that.

Stiles sighs, breath heavy with responsibility that absolutely should not be his. “It’s not about justice, Derek, it’s about revenge. It’s not right. Nothing is right. There is no right anymore. That stopped being an option when she used you like that.”

Derek’s heart seizes in his chest so audibly that Stiles glances down, two little lines creasing the skin between his eyebrows but he doesn’t move. In fact, he goes completely still while Derek’s world tilts on its axis, vertigo and numbness swamping his senses until all he can hear is blood rushing through his veins, every muscle quivering like his body is trying to come apart.

With exaggerated slowness, each movement drawn out and careful, Stiles sits up and Derek wants to snap at him for it -- he isn’t made of glass -- but considering the pit in his stomach threatening to engulf him, maybe he is.

“It didn’t make sense that they went to the basement unless they thought there was a way out. And there would have been if she hadn’t blocked the tunnel. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why you smell like guilt every time you look at Peter’s scars.”

He thinks, _Yes_ , and, _Please, no_ , and maybe it’s fitting that he should lose this, too, but then, why...?

Distantly, it occurs to Derek he’s in shock.

“Here’s the thing, though, you aren’t the one who set your house on fire. _She’s_ why Peter is so fucked up. _She’s_ the reason my dad’s dead and why you hate yourself for something that isn’t your fault so if you’re looking for a reason, there you go. That’s why we’re doing this. Someone should pay for all the shitty trickle down we get to live with because of her.”

Still moving carefully, Stiles slides a hand into Derek’s hair, tugging not quite gently. There’s no pity in his eyes, only fondness and want, his gaze trailing down the line of Derek’s neck more intimately than a touch.

“You can have what you want, you know. You just have to ask. Or take,” Stiles adds. “Taking’s good, too. Taking’s great, really, when it comes right down to it.”

Derek doesn’t know which is more surreal to consider: that Stiles might be joking or the very real possibility that he isn’t.

Either way, it’s the worst kind of relief when Stiles leaves. It means Derek gets to be alone when the shock wears off and the panic sets in because _what if he tells Peter_.

+

It’s not an accident. It would be easier to live with if --

He tells himself it doesn’t matter.

He _lies_.

Derek spends two days snapping at Peter and Stiles, snarling and vicious like the animal he surely is but it doesn’t help. Stiles reeks of arousal every time Derek gets in his space, pheromones and teenage lust belying the disinterested look on Stiles's face. It’s fucked up the way he seems to get off on being threatened, eyes glowing with interest when Derek puts him against a wall and that’s --

What the hell did Peter do to this kid?

What the hell did this kid do to _Peter_? Peter smells like bitterness and rage every time he catches Derek with his hands on Stiles, glares at them both like he can’t decide which of them to hate. It's Peter who looks away when he meets Stiles’s gaze, which is just...

Peter’s the _Alpha_. It doesn’t make sense that he’d turn away.

Two days trying to put distance between them and every time, Stiles just looks at him, blank faced and neutral like it doesn’t make a difference to him what Derek does. Like he could do anything and Stiles would stand there, would _take_ it...

He’s so fucking tired of trying to do right by this kid when all it does is bring out the worst in him so fine, Stiles wants worst? Derek can give it to him.

He shoves Stiles into the doorframe, pins him there with an arm across his collarbone and drops his weight until all the air rushes out of Stiles in a huff. Leaves him red-faced and gasping, slack and blissed out under Derek’s grip like this is exactly what he was hoping for.

It’s not an accident, but Derek kind of wishes it was because then maybe it would be an accident that when Stiles sucks in a breath, Derek chases it with his tongue.

+

There’s an ease between them he envies, a similarity he can’t quite name and doesn’t want to. He’s afraid he won’t like what it’s called.

Afraid it sounds an awful lot like ‘love.’

“No.”

Stiles glares, sullen and indignant when Peter plucks the bag of chips from his hands.

“Dude--”

“I am not going to pay to have my car detailed because you got crumbs all over the seat.”

“I’ll pay you back when I’m eighteen,” Stiles sneers.

“I’ll buy you dinner when we’re done,” Peter counters, tossing the bag into the backseat.

Calculation radiates from Stiles and Derek can practically hear him weighing the cost of a stake out against his favorite foods.

“I want a Burger As Big As Your Head from Joe’s.”

“Fine.”

“And I want curly fries.”

“ _Fine_.”

“And a milkshake.”

“Stiles.”

“I want the shake or I’m going for the chips.”

Peter sighs. “That’s probably the least threatening threat you’ve ever made towards me.”

“Which is why it would be petty,” Stiles agrees, “to quibble over something so small.”

Peter’s glare only makes Stiles grin and it’s _that_ \-- that casual disregard -- that makes Derek’s skin crawl because it’s unnatural. Stiles is a beta, he should _want_ to please his Alpha. It should be hardwired into him but it's not.

“I regret you every day,” Peter says, and Stiles’s grin shifts into something fond, pleasantly confused; a little surprised.

“Wow, you really _don’t_ mean that, do you?”

Derek quietly grips the hand rest in the backseat until it dents.

“If I knew you liked it that rough I would have--” It’s mocking, but there’s real bitterness in Peter’s tone that makes Derek’s stomach twist. It’s part guilt and part possessiveness because while he hates that it hurts his uncle he wants Stiles more. Now that Laura --

And with Peter like he is. Derek needs to know that Stiles is there, will always be there like he said. He needs Stiles to be pack and if Derek has to sell what’s left of his soul -- become the monster they’re trying to kill -- to keep him, he’ll do it.

Peter already broke that part of Stiles, anyway. It’s not like staying away will fix it.

The rationalization doesn’t make him feel less disgusting. If anything it makes him feel worse but self-loathing isn't exactly new.

Stiles swipes half-heartedly in Peter’s direction, quick but without real force. “Finish that statement and you’re going to owe me a lot more than dinner.”

+

It’s too easy in the end. It feels cheap, watching the her eyes roll back in her head while Stiles chokes her out. Makes his stomach turn the way it does when he thinks of her touching him. Or of touching her.

Stiles and Peter make it look so easy, like it makes no difference to them, her skin on their skin as they load her into the trunk. Like it doesn’t matter, shouldn’t matter when Peter fists a hand in her hair and drags her into the tunnels.

Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe none of it matters at all.

She sits there, wriggling, looking for any way out, any chance she might get some part of herself free, her eyes sliding between him and them like she can’t decide whether to watch the threat or hope for mercy.

Like it’s something he could grant even if he wanted to.

“Derek--” Her voice quavers a little then cuts off altogether when Stiles backhands her casually, hard enough to split her lip and snap her head to the side.

His voice, though, is completely calm. “Don’t speak to him.”

She tongues at the blood, something resigned in her face when she looks up at him. “Or what?”

Stiles frowns, thinking. “You can still scream with your tongue cut out, right?”

“Yup,” Peter answers.

“There you go.” And then in a voice that’s lost all its pretense of congeniality, Stiles reiterates, “Don’t speak to him.”

Turns out you can scream plenty with your tongue still in, too, and she does, over and over, but not to Derek. She listens in a way he’s never seen her do, not in bed, not with Chris and certainly not with him, but she listens to Stiles and Derek wants to beg, to plead with him on her behalf.

“Look, see? She’s doing what you told her, she’s being good. Just let her die. Let her die, please, make it end.”

He says nothing -- just watches as they take her apart, shaking like he’s the one under the knife until finally Stiles is there, between him and the horror like before. Like in the clearing with Laura and it doesn’t even matter that Stiles is responsible for this because he’s there and that’s more than Derek can say about anyone else.

He doesn’t wait for Stiles to pull him in this time. He can’t. He needs something to hold, something real. Maybe this is what it’s like for turned wolves, he thinks -- what it was like for Stiles. Your body torn apart by urges you can’t parse out until you’re afraid you’ll go mad with it if you haven’t already. Until you clutch at anything, _anything_ , so long as it anchors you to yourself.

Derek wants to ask, “Is that what you did with Peter?”

Instead, he lets himself be moved, focuses on breathing and the heat of Stiles’s skin where it’s soaking into him until they’re outside and god, but that first hit of fresh air is enough to make him dizzy -- enough to set him shaking again after he’d managed to stop.

Stiles leans in, nose pressed under Derek’s ear as he draws in a heavy breath, his sigh somewhere between rapturous and turned on.

For an instant, all Derek can feel is Stiles’s grip, hard and too tight. They’re pressed together from head to hip, Stiles a hard line against him, bone and sinew and Derek wants to rip open his skin and crawl inside.

Stiles squeezes the back of his neck and steps away. Says, “Come on.”

Derek makes it about three steps before he launches himself at Stiles, plasters him against the side of Peter’s car and the thought of that only gets him more worked up. Peter smelling the two of them against the driver’s side door, smelling Stiles and him together and hating it more.

Stiles is squirming, not quite fighting. Writhing around like he wants leverage he can’t find without pushing Derek away.

“Derek.” And god, but the breathy little way Stiles says his name, needy and desperate like he never is at other times.

Because maybe Stiles does need him, as much as Derek needs Stiles, even, but he doesn’t show it. It’s not on display like Derek’s desperation and it’s too new for Derek to trust that it’s there. It’s still --

He needs proof. He needs --

Derek gets one hand around Stiles throat, uses the other to open Stiles’s jeans and when Derek gets a hand on him the noise Stiles makes is just perfect. A keening, whimpery sort of sound that makes something in Derek’s chest clench, his breath catch. The sort of sound that makes him want to take Stiles apart just to get it back.

He settles for dragging out new ones. And if he likes the way Stiles arches when Derek bites a little too hard, the way he makes it hurt a little when Stiles comes, his fist tight and pumping well past the point when it feels good, well.

It’s not like he didn’t already know he was fucked up. He just keeps finding new depths to it, like the way he ruts against Stiles soft cock so hard Stiles cries, tears slipping down his cheeks and onto Derek's tongue.

+

Stiles leaves Derek at home with some hot tea and a kiss.

He comes back a day later stinking like Peter’s blood. Peter isn’t with him.

Derek doesn’t ask.


	2. Chapter 2

**II. seal my ears, I’ll go on hearing you**

The worst part about this scenario, Peter rapidly decides, is that in between bouts of agony no human could endure, he has to put up with being lectured. Sometimes even during, because as he’s been informed, part of their new arrangement is going to feature a whole new level of communication.

At first, the script is easy, straightforward.

“Yes, that hurts.”

“Yes, that hurts a lot.”

“Yes, that hurts so badly I’d rather be dead.”

But then, Stiles starts asking real questions, demanding real answers, and now?

Now Peter’s got a carpenter’s nail through his kidney. One that Stiles is flicking absently in a way that should be making Peter scream but isn’t because he has to find a way to speak if he’s going to make it stop.

“Come on, Peter, it’s not even that difficult of a question. What do you actually want?”

 _You_ , Peter thinks. _I want you, wrong and twisted and clever and sharp. There’s something so wrong with you but I want you despite it — because of it. It’s possible I caused it but I want you to be mine._

What he says — croaks, more accurately — is, “I don’t want to be alone,” and that…

Stiles pulls away, tips Peter’s head back because he can’t on his own, and smiles. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

+

John Stilinski’s life is worth three days to his son, apparently. Stiles makes them count.

+

Nothing is different.

Well, that’s not entirely true. Everything is different, it’s just nothing actually changes. Something really should have, Peter feels. Stiles tortured him. That should matter, Peter’s almost positive, but somehow it just… doesn’t.

Stiles wakes him with a few rough slaps -- love taps compared to the last time Stiles hit him -- and Peter finds he can move his arms and legs freely. That he is no longer shackled or bound to anything.

He’d like to say he leapt at Stiles immediately; got his hands around that long, fragile neck and squeezed until the whites of Stiles’s eyes were red with burst veins. Part of him wants to -- a dark, seething thing that whispered, _Vengeance. Vengeance. Make it bleed. Make it beg. Make it pay_  -- but mostly he’s tired.

He wants to drink a gallon of water and sleep for a week somewhere soft and warm, preferably a bed. Somewhere far away from the stench of his blood and piss. He wants clean air and dark trees and the red flash of blood fresh from the kill.

He wants the summer Stiles turned fourteen, he realizes. Klamath National Park. Wilderness and fucking and they’d been happy, hadn’t they? Why? _Why?_

Peter stares out the window the entire drive home, thoughts and questions plaguing him but it comes back to three things above the others.

Peter crawls into bed with the firm intention of never coming back out and when he wakes up there’s a glass of water on the side table exactly where Stiles used to leave it when this bed had been theirs and somehow the sight of it -- the fact of that glass of water -- is too much. The last straw. The nail in the coffin. Every cliche about a crystallizing moment given shape and form.

The first thing he does when he gets up is shave. The second is to drag the mattress, sheets and coverlet outside where he sets them on fire. The third is to buy a new bedroom set and yes, he explains over the phone, he will pay for same day delivery.

Stiles gets an odd look on his face when he comes home from school to the charred remains in their backyard. Peter knows because he’s watching from the upstairs window.

No, he doesn’t care if it’s stalkerish. He needs to see this. He has to _know_.

Stiles stares at it for thirty seconds, his gaze not quite blank. Peter would think it was indifference if not for the way Stiles’s eyes glow, sharp and searching and for a moment there’s something mournful there that makes Peter’s heart clench in his chest before it’s gone.

Stiles nods a little to himself and goes inside, but Peters stays, staring; thinking. Trying not to think.

Everything is different, he reminds himself.

But _nothing is changed_.

+

It takes Peter longer than it should to figure it out. Why Stiles has been acting strangely, hinting in his roundabout way. Peter ought to have smelled it on him but considering how often Stiles and Derek reek of one another he thinks he can be excused on that count.

No, what bothers him isn’t that he missed something, it’s that as soon as he understands, he _understands_.

Erica Reyes is pretty under the hopelessness. Peter can see it and he knows Stiles can, too. That tenacious will inside her; the one that insists without reason or hope that if she just tries hard enough -- strives long enough -- somehow it will get better.

It’s fairly amazing high school hasn’t managed to beat that out of her yet. Enough that Peter’s a little intrigued despite himself.

Part of him wants to insult her and send her away just to be petulant but he isn’t stupid and he knows a good investment when he sees one.

Erica Reyes will pay dividends once she gets used to the fur.

Stiles smirks up at him from where they’re seated on the couch, an array of papers and textbooks spread across the coffee table, and for a moment it’s like it was before Derek. Just the two of them, not always in sync but always united and the regret burning through Peter is neck and neck with the relief that they still have this at all.

Because even though Stiles is not being subtle about trying to replace himself in Peter’s affections, the principle is sound. A pack needs to grow.

Erica looks at Peter nervously, fear rolling off her almost as strongly as the adoration she’d been beaming at Stiles. “So... I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Peter feels a pang of sympathy watching her face light up when Stiles turns that grin on her, easy and nice in a way Stiles isn’t, promising, “Definitely,” like it’s a foregone conclusion.

Almost makes Peter feel sorry for her. He knows what it’s like to be in love with Stiles. Maybe he should start a support group. Derek could be the President.

Once she’s cleaned up her things, darted with a nervous attempt at a smile past Peter and shut the door behind her, Stiles throws his feet up on the table, smugly satisfied in the decision Peter’s already made.

“You’re not cute,” Peter says, half bitter, half fond, and the full, rich sound of Stiles’s laughter rings out like it hasn’t for weeks.

Peter hadn’t even realized he missed it until just now. It catches him off guard, leaves him raw in a way he wasn’t expecting and maybe that’s why he says, “It’s not going to work, you know.”

If he hadn’t been looking he would have missed it, but there’s a flash of something in Stiles’s eyes, there and gone before Peter can read it.

“You should try to make it,” Stiles says, voice thick with affection and it shouldn’t be possible for Stiles to feel that way about someone he tortured for three days.

For Peter to feel this way about someone who tortured him.

Peter thinks, _He doesn’t even know what you are_.

None of it changes the fact that it’s Derek’s room Stiles slips into and despite appearances Peter is not actually a glutton for punishment.

The look in Stiles’s eyes, though. He tries not to think about it because he doesn’t actually know what it was, just... what it could have been -- might be -- and really, that’s so much worse.

Maybe Erica will swap stories with him if he threatens her.

+

She comes around once or twice a week, top a little tighter with every visit until Derek literally can’t stand to be in the same room as the two of them.

It doesn’t seem to matter that Stiles never reciprocates, doesn’t even glance at those -- admittedly impressive -- curves. Derek apparently can’t stand it on principle, the thought of someone throwing themselves at Stiles that way.

Maybe it makes him a bastard, but Peter just has to poke at that little bruise.

Stiles glares as he moves to follow Derek, mumbles, “Little petty for you, isn’t it?” Too low for the girl to catch, just loud enough for Peter to hear across the room.

“Whatever made you think I wasn’t, Stiles?” Peter murmurs back, enjoying the way Stiles is bound by his own charade.

Derek is furiously pretending to read the dictionary when Peter walks into the bedroom. He doesn’t bother knocking because he’s a mature adult and not petty in any way, shape, or form, clearly.

“Was it the arousal pouring off her or the way he smiled that finally got to you?”

Derek grinds his teeth slightly before answering, “I couldn’t really smell her through your bitterness, actually. Is that because he’s only sleeping with me these days or because your beta is making pack decisions without you?”

And that... that hits a little too close to home, actually, but it has nothing to do with Peter’s reasons for plopping into Stiles’s chair like he owns it. He doesn’t let a hint of the deviant things he’s done to Stiles in this chair show in his smile. And he definitely doesn’t get a kick out of knowing that Stiles will smell him there later. Might even have Derek go down on him with the scent of Peter in his nose -- on his tongue.

“It’s cute, don’t you think? She has no idea what he is -- what she’s inviting. No clue all the ways he’d twist her just because he could.” There’s a speck of dirt under Peter’s thumbnail and he worries it as he speaks, watching Derek from the corner of his eye. “He might do it anyway once she’s in the pack. Until he gets bored, at least.”

Derek flips the book shut, tosses it on the bed and stalks out the door almost as angrily as he’d stalked in and isn’t that just fascinating?

“You’re a little more aware than I gave you credit for, nephew.”

+

Stiles is a psychopath. It’s not a judgment, it’s just a fact. Peter’s a psychopath, too, and honestly, he doesn’t see a problem with it. It’s a personality trait. No one is perfect. And if Stiles is a little more psychopathic than Peter, it’s no better or worse than, say, Stiles being less of a morning person. It’s what he is.

It’s _who_ he is and Peter’s fine with that. More than fine, really. Peter doesn’t mind when Stiles needs something to break and that something is him. Quite liked it, actually, watching Stiles get off on his pain. God knows Peter’s gotten off on Stiles’s enough that it’s only fair.

He’s not too proud to admit that the lack of Stiles aches like a bruise; a vague, throbbing sort of absence that plucks at him until he has to get away or go mad and frankly, he kind of misses seeing that glint in Stiles’s eye when he’s got damage on his mind.

Stiles is what he is and sooner or later, it’s going to be Derek he breaks. Not all at once, probably, but eventually, with time. Derek doesn’t seem to mind the idea of it, either, and Peter’s smelled blood sometimes after they’ve had sex -- from Stiles and Derek both, so it’s at least partly equal opportunity. Derek might not be a psychopath but he’s definitely not normal and he’s _definitely_ not nice.

He’s also not stupid. He understands that once something is broken, it’s broken. And Derek is _afraid_.

See, Derek isn’t broken the way Peter is, the way Stiles always has been. Derek is fractured, mending little by little and who knows, if he hadn’t come back to Beacon Hills maybe he would have gone right on healing until he could live a normal life.

Maybe he would have met a nice boy who would have taught him to be nice in turn and Laura would still be alive teaching dance somewhere in Manhattan.

Maybe someone would have smashed him into little pieces and ground him under heel for the hell of it. Who knows. The point is, Derek’s not broken but it’s only a matter of time before Stiles breaks him. He probably doesn’t even mind, masochistic little bastard, but once Stiles breaks him, Derek has no guarantee Stiles will want what’s left and that is something Peter can work with. That’s a weakness he can abuse.

Peter isn’t stupid, either. Stiles wants him, still -- always -- and no, it’s not the same way he wants Derek. It’s different between them. Darker. It’s what they made it, this desire, but it’s real all the same and just because Stiles can choose to ignore it _doesn't mean it isn't there_.

Stiles doesn’t need to be convinced to want Peter. He needs an excuse to take him. 

The fact that Peter can't currently think of anything that even remotely seems plausible isn't a deterrent. He can be patient if he has to. He can wait.

As long as there's something worth waiting for.

+

There’s something almost touching about the way Derek supports Stiles without question. It’s sort of beautiful, that level of acceptance.

Peter hates him for it, of course, but that’s really a foregone conclusion at this stage in their relationship. There’s a twisted sort of justice in the fact that he killed the niece he loved to keep the boy he wanted, then lost him to the nephew he wishes were dead.

Well, not _dead_ , really. Miserably unhappy. And maybe bleeding a little. It’s not hard to imagine, Derek’s bloody mouth half open as he crawls across the floor. Towards Stiles, probably, and in Peter’s perfect little fantasy Stiles doesn’t even notice, just runs a claw tenderly down Peter’s throat before he carves his name across it.

Derek might not even --

Peter accidentally shatters his teacup, the beauty of his revelation is that terrifying to behold. It rolls through him with all the hot immediacy of pain, a hope so fierce it could wreck him if it turns out to be false. Cautiously, his body held in rigid stillness against the maelstrom of emotions surging through him, Peter finishes the thought, gives it words and a voice and this feels like the most dangerous moment, like the slightest misstep here could ruin the very possibility he’s contemplating.

 _Derek might not even mind as long as Stiles carves his name into Derek, too_.

The really infuriating thing about Derek is how oddly passive he can be. All that brooding and scowling and for what? The sake of appearances? Posturing? Derek doesn’t want power. He isn’t obsessed with control the way Peter and Stiles are. Derek’s obsessed with wanting and being wanted. He needs to keep and be kept so if Stiles comes home covered in blood, Derek will burn the clothes and if Stiles wants new betas, Derek will help him get new betas and if Stiles wants someone he can fuck up, maybe, with the right prompting, Derek will let it be Peter instead.

He’ll put the lapse down to distraction. Everyone deserves a break now and again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to the end, brave readers. This fic has been a wild ride from start to finish and I've been blown away by how many of you have come with me on it. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading and I hope you find the conclusion as satisfying to read as it was to write.
> 
> Warnings posted in the end notes but there is some triggery sex in this chapter so be aware.

**III. and without feet I can make my way to you**

Stiles is careful about it with Erica. He takes it slow, builds up to the big reveal with a lot of talk about trust and vulnerability and okay, so it’s utter bullshit, but it’s also the easiest way to put someone in your pocket. Make them believe you’re in theirs.

So Stiles waits until she loves him before he tells her. Until she thinks she loves him anyway but really, what’s the difference? She’s still here. She’s still his.

He’s mildly expecting Erica to scream or gasp or something but she just watches with a solemn expression. Not a trace of fear in her scent because she trusts him absolutely.

Only a little stupidly. It’s not like he’s going to lose control and eat her liver or anything but as a general principle she probably shouldn’t.

None of them should but somehow they all do. Stiles is the fulcrum around which they all move. Exactly how he wants the world to be.

It makes him twitchy when everything goes right.

Erica rolls up her sleeve with quiet bravery and says, “Okay.”

It’s Peter who puts his teeth in her but it’s Stiles who brought them there.

She doesn’t even cry.

+

They go out without Derek sometimes. Hunting. Killing. They’ve got a taste for it now and they’re smart, careful. Never too many too fast or too obviously. Just enough to scratch the itch.

Peter finds him elbow deep in a vagrant. He must have sensed it through the pack bond. Usually they don’t acknowledge it but it comes in handy sometimes. Like when you have to get rid of a body.

Stiles knows what he looks like. He’s been using his big eyes to his advantage since he was fourteen. He has no qualms about doing it now.

He drags a hand across his face to draw Peter’s attention to his lips. It doesn’t serve to clean him at all. There’s liver in his teeth, blood on his face and hands. He watches Peter through his lashes and lets the heat bleed into his yellow eyes, waits for the answering flash of red.

This is what held them together so long. What made them work. They serve the same dark gods. The naked desire in Peter’s face is beautiful and Stiles can’t help himself. He reaches into the chest, rips out the heart, and offers it to Peter, the hot twitch of muscle pulsing against his palm.

Peter swallows, desire and rage flickering across his features, too intermingled to ever sort out.

“You’re not cute,” he manages, his voice rough and low sending frission racing along Stiles’s spine.

He's surprised when it hurts a little, the pain in that voice, but Peter’s already rolling up his sleeves, his breath coming hard as he lets his claws extend, his fangs drop and Stiles can’t help the way his eyes track the line of Peter’s throat.

The blood steams faintly between them and Peter smirks, nods to the heart. “You going to eat that?”

Stiles can’t help it, he laughs. He’d missed this.

“It’s all yours.”

They come back reeking of blood and charcoal, ash in their hair and a wild satisfaction in their eyes. Derek never asks and they never say, but he’s not stupid. He has to know the blood is human.

He loves watching Derek when they get home, the hate and the fear in his eyes. Stiles smells like death, like Peter, and it’s deliberate. It’s a taunt, a dare, a promise of things to come because Derek can’t stand it and Stiles knows that. He uses that to make Derek hurt him.

Peter just watches, eyes sliding off Stiles’s face to find Derek’s eyes, the hunger in them laid bare as if to say, “You see what we are. You know what you’re not.”

He’d feel more guilty about it except it usually ends with him bleeding under Derek and he’s partial to that outcome. It’s not like he’s a monster. He’s not asking _Derek_ to kill.

+

Stiles is less careful with Isaac, all harsh smiles and long, lean menace while Isaac stares and shivers and wants. Derek doesn’t understand.

“It’s what he needs,” Stiles explains, one hand on Derek’s cock and the other pressed to the base of his throat. “A promise of what he could be if we let him.”

Derek drags his claws slowly up Stiles’s sides, thin red lines and fresh pink skin trailing in their wake. Stiles hisses, arching into the shivery pain. Derek rolls Stiles under him, pins him down with all his weight and grinds down in a way that focuses his attention beautifully.

He buries his human teeth in Stiles’s shoulder just shy of enough pressure to break the skin and Stiles whimpers. He almost begs for the fangs but he stops just sort. When Derek breaks away Stiles can feel the lurid imprint of teeth. He wishes he could make it stay, but in a couple minutes it’ll be like it never happened.

Not like if Peter did it. With Peter the marks had stayed for _days_.

Stiles smiles up at him, writhes in a way that emphasizes his vulnerability. It’s all teeth. “You can have him if you want.”

It’s like he’s just punched Derek in the chest. All the air goes out of him in a single breath, his eyes dark and haunted and fuck, that’s good. That’s exactly the right kind of hurt. He loves the way Derek breaks.

Stiles gets a hand between them, takes them both in a single grip. It’s too dry, too much friction, but it’s exactly what Derek needs.

“No? Maybe Erica. I saw how she got under your skin. I see how you look at her even now. Do you want to kill her? Fuck her? Both?” Stiles keeps his voice soft, gentle, nothing like his hand which is too tight, a little painful but somehow just right. “I got her for Peter but he doesn’t seem interested. You could have her instead.”

“Stiles--” Derek’s gasping, his hips snapping into Stiles like he can’t control it, like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.

Stiles arches up, sinks his teeth into Derek’s neck and he actually _sobs_ , his orgasm wrenched out of him so hard he’s shaking. Stiles frantically tugs at his own dick until he’s coming, too, the mess slicked against both their stomachs and fuck, he knew it would be good but he wasn’t expecting it to be that good.

Derek is still gasping like he just ran a marathon. He's shaking like he's falling apart and he can’t even move himself off Stiles who has to wriggle out from under him. Derek looks dazed and drained and it’s beautiful.

He looks positively _gutted_.

Stiles laughs and mouths along his trembling back.

+

“I’m tired of waiting,” Erica announces, plopping into the seat next to Isaac. Every eye in the cafeteria follows her as she does it. She’s hot and she knows it and now so does everyone else. She takes a vicious bite out of her apple and for a second Stiles is convinced it’s going to bleed but the flesh inside is white and clean.

Isaac jostles her lightly at the shoulder, that new dangerous glint in his eye. It’s a thin veneer covering the gaping wounds underneath but it’s a start. Everyone has to start somewhere.

Stiles started on his father’s corpse, too.

“When,” Erica hisses, “can we go out again?”

Her enthusiasm is appreciated. He’d known the deer wouldn’t be enough to tide her over and it’s gratifying to know he has her number so completely, but she needs to remember her place.

Stiles chews meditatively, staring her down until she looks away. He stares until the silence at the table is tense and uncomfortable, until Isaac is trembling slightly with the urge to run and Erica is perfectly still.

“Patience is a virtue,” he says eventually, letting his eyes fall away from them. He kicks Isaac’s foot under the table and the kid nearly jumps out of his skin. “Relax, dude. I’m not going to bite.” He catches Erica’s eye and grins. “Derek might, if you ask nicely.”

Her smile is thin, a little wavering, but she’s learning. She quirks an eyebrow. “Who says I haven’t?”

Stiles smirks and snags a fry off Isaac’s plate. “You’d be a lot less keyed up if you were getting laid.”

Isaac laughs like it’s a shock to him but he’s stopped shaking, his eyes finally fixing on Stiles again. He even manages to fake a grin and steal Stiles’s pudding in revenge.

“Seriously, though,” Stiles adds, beaming at them like a false sun. “You should ask.”

She frowns and looks away, questions she isn’t ready to ask poised on her tongue. She’ll figure it out eventually and then they’ll really have some fun.

“When, though?" Isaac asks.

Stiles considers lying but at the last second he tells them the truth. “Eight days.”

Isaac’s eyes go wide. Sooner than he’d expected maybe but Erica’s gleam. She licks her lips. “The full moon.”

“Hot and smart,” Stiles says, grinning hugely. “It’ll be here before you know it.”

+

Boyd is a pleasant surprise, staring down at him perfectly evenly. No fear.

“I don’t care what it is. I see what it can do.”

Stiles taps his legs, contemplatively. “You might not care what it is but you should care what it might cost.”

Boyd just shrugs, his massive shoulders blocking out the light of the door. “I see what it did for them.” He eyes Stiles then adds, “I don’t know if it’s what happened to you, but I’m tired of sitting alone at lunch.”

He likes Boyd’s calm, his steady hands and careful gestures. He might be just what they need to keep them grounded.

Or might be a major liability. The qualities that make him valuable also make him harder to manipulate and predict.

He watches Boyd closely for a reaction when he says, “We’re monsters, you know, and not the safe, neutered Hollywood kind. If you do this you’re signing on to be one, too.”

Boyd smiles. “That’s nothing new.”

Stiles is ninety nine percent sure he’s wrong about that but as long as he thinks he’s right…

He claps Boyd on the shoulder and readjusts his back pack. “Walk with me.”

+

They bring the whole pack to deal with Isaac’s father. It’s their first full moon together, the air cold and biting against naked skin and this kill will cement them as one unit, one family.

Stiles can’t help but admire them. Each one beautiful in their own way. Isaac broad and defined, soft curls at odds with the fierce expression. Erica, smirking and savage, at home for the first time in her own skin. Boyd looks dubious but he’s there, standing at Erica’s shoulder like her personal guard with his eyes fixed on their prey.

Makes him proud, a feeling he sees echoed in Peter’s face as he cuts the bonds on Mr. Lahey’s wrists.

The fear rolling off him is enough to make anyone high but the strain is worst on Isaac, his eyes burning in his pale face. The only thing keeping him from snapping right there is the leash of Peter’s control and Stiles can feel it fraying with the call of the moon.

“You should run while you can,” Peter points out. He glances up at the sky where the cloud cover is rolling out. “Soon, even I won’t be able to hold them back.”

Mr. Lahey is frozen in his terror, his eyes bulging out of his skull and sweat streaming off his body. He reeks of prey and Stiles steps forward to get his attention, slides a little into the change. He presses one claw delicately to the underside of Mr. Lahey’s chin, just enough pressure to force him to stand.

“Seriously, though. Run, or I’ll slit you open right here.”

That’s enough to send him scampering off into the underbrush, crashing around so loudly they could track him with ear plugs.

Derek is radiating disapproval but he still presses his nose against Stiles’s throat. He’s still here. It’s important for them to do this as a pack.

Into his ear, Stiles whispers, “Don’t worry. All you have to do is watch.”

Peter clears his throat and smiles benevolently, the picture of a charming host. “I’d say that’s enough of a headstart, wouldn’t you?”

Derek growls and lets his eyes bleed blue. “Is it ever enough?”

Peter’s grin is brighter than the moon.

+

Stiles thinks this is how he likes it best, the three of them easy together at home. He’s got his head on Derek’s shoulder, Derek’s arm around his neck, the heat of him a hard line down Stiles’s back. His feet are propped on Peter’s knee at the other end of the couch, one of them going numb against the pressure of Peter’s bones but Stiles doesn’t care enough to move. He’s warm, comfortable; Peter’s bitter, Derek’s jealous, and somewhere in the world there are three confused new betas waiting for Stiles to mold them into who they’re going to be.

It’s a good day. Maybe later he’ll let Derek fuck him, see which side of him wants to come out and play. It’s always a coin toss with Derek in bed. Sometimes it’s harsh -- teeth and bruises, too much too fast, blood on the sheets and Stiles a begging mess on Derek’s cock. Others, it’s slow -- heat and warmth and an aching in his chest so good it makes Stiles want to die. A sharp, sudden clutch at his heart that stops his voice in his throat, makes it hard to breathe.

He likes to think Derek feels it, too. That there was something between them Stiles didn’t have to provoke but it kind of doesn’t matter. Maybe all love is provoked, one way or another, and however it started it’s there now for sure. He can feel it in the way Derek’s arm goes tight when Peter rests a hand on Stiles’s ankle, like Derek wants to snatch him away but doesn’t quite dare.

And Stiles isn’t going to lie, the possessiveness? Seriously a turn on, especially when Derek gets that manic look in his eye, biting and scenting like he’s trying to warn Peter away and make Stiles his by force of will alone. Like it doesn’t mean enough that Stiles chooses him every day. Like he wants it all, everything Stiles has to give and then some.

Like it’ll never _stop_.

A shiver crawls up Stiles’s spine just thinking about it and Peter’s fingers claw into his leg. Not too hard. No broken skin, just a gut reaction to the change in Stiles’s scent and for a second, Stiles considers sliding his foot up, up, up Peter’s thigh, toes curling while Peter gets hard.

Derek’s so afraid of losing Stiles he wouldn’t make a fuss and that... Oh, that’s too good to even consider. He’s half-hard at the thought of Derek’s lost, hurt eyes, the anger in Peter’s. It’s heady to know neither of them would make him stop.

He rearranges his feet so the numb one is on top shaking off Peter's grip. His feet stay on Peter’s knee.

Derek’s not the only one with two sides.

Some days it’s all Stiles can do not to give in to those urges, the ones that tell him just how to gouge the biggest chunk out of Derek. How to twist and twist and twist until what’s left is a Derek he doesn’t have to coach, a Derek who would cut out Kate Argent’s heart and feed it to Stiles bite by steaming bite until they forgot everything but the taste of blood.

 _That_ Derek might even put Stiles on his knees and work him open while Stiles sucked Peter off, just hold him down and _take_ like he means it instead of just like it’s something Stiles wants.

This must be how a sculptor feels looking at a block of marble. It’s like seeing what Derek could be inside what he is, what he might become. Stiles could finish what Kate started and rip out all those pesky lingering mores that keep Derek sane, whole.

Some days Stiles wants that so bad he has to leave before he gets his claws into Derek and starts digging, but the thing is, he always leaves. Always, because while he does want that -- and he really, _really_ does -- he wants to keep Derek safe more.

It would be laughable if it weren’t so damned serious. The thought of anyone else hurting Derek like that -- hurting Derek at all... It’s not an exaggeration to label his reaction as ‘seething rage.’ Stiles has a couple ideas planned out for the next person who does and isn’t that just fucking hilarious? The one person Derek really needs protecting from is the one who won’t let him go.

Like he can sense the bend of Stiles’s thoughts, Derek huffs and pulls him closer, nuzzling the top of Stiles’s head. It helps a little knowing Derek doesn’t want to be let go. It’s not like he doesn’t know exactly what Stiles can do. And that’s practically permission in its own way but it’s not... Stiles won’t. Yet. He’s not...

Peter’s lip curls up in what could either be a sneer or an aborted snarl, but his voice is saccharine when he asks, “Should I take that as my cue to leave?”

Derek tenses, grip gone too tight where he’s holding Stiles’s bones but he doesn’t speak. Maybe can’t trust himself to speak and Stiles goes a little light headed from the pressure.

He tips his head back and pulls Derek down for deep, filthy kisses until he’s panting into Stiles’s mouth and Peter is rigidly still, his muscles turned to stone under Stiles’s feet. The room is swimming in the scent of their arousal, Peter’s rage, Derek’s shame.

It feels like playing with fire. It feels _perfect_.

He pulls away, sneaks a glance to gauge Peter’s reaction. His pupils are blown. He looks like he wants to flay Stiles alive and fuck him all at the same time.

Derek, though, Derek looks wrecked. Guilty and angry and turned on all at once. Stiles reaches up to curl a hand around Derek’s jaw, his nails right on the verge of being claws. He’s skirting the edge of the change, just enough to feel the fur under his skin, the fangs in his jaw.

“What do you want?” Stiles asks, sliding his fingers through Derek’s hair in the way that never fails to make Derek shudder.

It works beautifully. Derek’s eyes flare blue and Peter sucks in a ragged little breath from the end of the couch.

Derek shakes his head, not like he’s saying no, like he doesn’t know how to answer.

Stiles smiles, slow and easy, rolls onto his side and mouths at the line of Derek’s cock through his pants.

Peter’s hand comes to rest, lightly, like a bird, on Stiles’s ankle, thumb tracing circles across the small bones of his foot.

It’s a shivery sort of reminder. Derek makes a subvocal sound and his head falls back against the edge of the couch. Stiles mouths harder, finds the zipper and drags it down with his teeth.

Peter’s hand clamps down like a vice, hard and bruising. Stiles can’t stifle his moan. He spares half a second to think about the dangerous line he’s towing but that’s never been enough to stop him before.

He shifts so he can drape an arm over Derek’s lap, pops the button on his jeans. He uses the movement to hide the way he slides his foot up Peter’s thigh and press against his cock, exactly like he thought about doing a minute ago.

Peter doesn’t make a sound, just uses his grip to press Stiles’s foot harder against himself

Derek’s eyes are locked on Stiles’s face, confusion and shame at odds with the erection straining up towards Stiles mouth. Stiles sighs and pulls the edge of Derek’s underwear down until his cock springs free. “You’re so hot when you’re fucked up.” He shuts his eyes and swallows Derek’s cock as far down as he can.

It’s not the best angle and his jaw starts to hurt immediately. The jeans are more than a little in the way but he doesn’t want to move. He’s half afraid if anyone moves the moment will break so he ignores all that and focuses on sucking Derek’s dick like his life depends on it.

Derek is already breathing hard, one hand coming to rest on the back of Stiles’s neck, pressing down like he wants to fuck Stiles’s face even though the position doesn’t really allow it. Shame always gets Derek hard and this is probably the most shameful thing he can imagine. Fucking an underage kid in front of his uncle. It’s literally skirting the line of incest and Stiles turns completely onto his stomach so he can grind into the couch. It’s nowhere near enough friction but it’s better than nothing.

Peter is thrusting up in slow, stuttering rolls of his hips against the arch of Stiles’s foot. It’s like the dirtiest foot massage ever and Stiles couldn’t care less about feet from a sexual aspect but he is all about the nine thousand taboos he’s currently breaking.

He sucks harder, hollowing his cheeks with a vengeance and Derek moans, his hand squeezing hard enough to compress the blood flow to Stiles’s brain. Everything gets hazy and there are fractals exploding behind his eyelids. He’s just starting to wonder if he’s going to pass out when the pressure abates and he hears Peter say, “Easy, Derek.”

There’s a second hand at the nape of his neck as Peter adjusts Derek’s grip and Stiles grinds his hips down harder groaning.

If he weren’t so lightheaded he’d be able to process the fact they’ve just crossed some kind of personal rubicon but right now all he can think is that he really wants someone to choke him again.

Someone’s hand trails down his back, probably Peter’s, and there’s a hand at his hip, drawing him up onto his knees.

Derek shifts and the jeans vanish from under his cheek, pressed down and away and suddenly there’s a lot more cock in his mouth, thrusting up viciously at the back of his throat. It’s heavenly. His hands clutch reflexively at the fabric of the couch, at Derek’s thigh, but there is no mercy in whatever this is they’ve started.

Peter stands up only to straddle Stiles’s knees, pinning him down. There’s no escape. His body struggles instinctively but he only manages to press back again Peter’s hips. He has no leverage.

Derek is growling, thrusting harder and Stiles’s blood is pounding in his ears. The tears are streaming down his cheeks and Peter is palming at his cock teasingly. He’s in danger of coming in his pants just from how utterly powerless he feels and then Derek is coming and Stiles does choke, coughing and gagging as he forces himself to swallow.

Derek’s dick softens gradually and when it finally slips free Stiles gasps and sags face first in Derek’s lap, every cell in his body torn between remembered agony and the sweet relief of air.

“Take his hands,” Peter growls, and without hesitation Derek gathers Stiles’s unresisting wrists in a punishing grip. His other he keeps on the side of Stiles’s neck, holding him now instead of forcing. His drags a thumb through the still streaming tears and Stiles can’t think. He mouths blindly until Derek gets the idea and gives him something to suck on.

By the time Stiles has two brain cells to rub together again Peter has shoved Stiles's pants down his hips, opened his own. He’s running a thumb along the tip of Stiles’s dick for precum and then that same digit is pressed into Stiles with no warning, no build up. There is clearly going to be absolute minimal prep leading up to this fuck.

Words are still beyond him but he thinks, _yessss_ , presses back into it, using his body to beg instead of his words. He hadn’t let himself miss this but he had, he really had. Peter working him open with a careless abandon, a reckless disregard for anything except what he wants.

Peter curls a hand around Stiles’s shoulder to brace against and from the corner of his eye Stiles watches him lick his palm.

He shudders in fear and anticipation because with only spit for lube this is really going to hurt.

Stiles locks eyes with Derek in the moment before, and then he cries out as Peter buries himself in one slow, relentless press.

It feels like he’s going to die, like he’s being split open and this is the end. Derek’s grip never falters and Stiles is left grasping at nothing, clawing at his own palms.

Derek looks fascinated. The shame is gone and in its place is something Stiles can’t read at all, but he’s not pulling away. He gives Stiles another digit to suck on and the feeling anchors him as Peter bottoms out. He knows he’s whimpering but he’s beyond controlling that. He’s lost control of this entire situation.

It vaguely occurs to him that this is a success but then Peter starts to move and all thought is abruptly silenced in the shuddering pain.

He’s never been more vulnerable in his life. He’s pulled taut like a bow between Derek’s hands and Peter’s cock, stretched to the breaking point. His dick is so hard he’s crying again, shamelessly, his eyes screwed shut as he sobs around Derek’s fingers.

It’s too much. It’s overwhelming. He can’t take it except that he is because there’s nowhere to run.

Peter’s voice floats to him as if from far away. “Be polite, Derek. Stiles needs to come.”

And the fingers withdrawal. He bites his lips to keep from screaming as Derek’s hand wraps around him, wet with his own spit.

Peter fists a hand in Stiles’s hair and pulls right as Derek twists his wrist and Stiles comes in a violent, electric, searing wave. His eyes fly open. They fix on nothing, but he can feel Derek’s eyes on his face and he realizes he’s gone totally silent. He might not even be breathing. His orgasm has obliterated everything else. He feels lost. He feels numb.

Behind him, Peter thrusts once, twice more, and comes, too, his grip loosening to allow Stiles to slump forward back into Derek’s lap. He can only lay there, his whole body trembling and a few last tears sliding away.

Peter pulls out of him and settles back against the arm of the couch, tugs gently to tip Stiles back onto his side so he’s curled up between them, Peter’s hands caressing his still bruised ankle.

Derek slides a thumb along his cheekbone through the tear tracks and Stiles thinks he might be in love. With both of them. With this. All of the above.

It’s the only time in his life he’s ever not known what to say but his brain is as numb as his fucked out body. They aren't exactly talk-it-out types but he should be checking on Derek. He should be pressing and prodding to find out their new limits and bounds, if there even are any. He should be planning how this changes things and deciding where to go, but he's not. He's too blissed out. He lays there’s half naked and shivering between his lovers and wonders if this is what happiness feels like.

Later, playing it back in his mind, he realizes the look on Derek’s face -- the one he hadn’t been able to read in the moment -- was awe.

**without a mouth I can swear you name**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter include incest adjacent sex, EXTREMELY UNSAFE BREATHPLAY AND DOMINATION, as well as the narrator feeling trapped and pinned down. If any of that is triggering, this is not the chapter for you.


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